The first day at a new university was supposed to be simple.
Keep your head down. Find your classes. Avoid drama.
That plan lasted about ten minutes.
You were rushing across the parking lot, trying to read your schedule while dodging crowds of students, when your shoulder clipped something solid.
A loud scrape cut through the noise.
You froze.
Slowly looking up, you saw the sleek black motorcycle beside you. The paint had a fresh scratch running along the side.
And then you heard the voice behind you.
“Tell me you didn’t just do that.”
Your stomach dropped.
You turned around.
Manfred Trautwein stood there, helmet hanging from one hand, dark messy hair falling over his eyes. The same guy everybody had been whispering about since you arrived. The racer. The troublemaker. The guy who made people move out of his way without asking.
His eyes shifted from the scratch on his bike back to you.
A slow, dangerous grin appeared.
“First day here and you already picked a fight with my bike?”
He moved closer, looking amused rather than angry.
“Interesting.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“So… what are you going to do about it?”
He does not let you past. He holds his hand out for your timetable.
"Insurance. You are coming to the shop with me."